


Blood On My Coat

by Allowisp



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Aromantic Character, Aromantic!Garrett Hawke, Asexual Character, Asexual!Garrett Hawke, Gen, Gray-A!Varric, Liberal interpretation of Dwarven magic resistance/connection to the Stone/Varric's family history, M/M, Mentioned canon-possible major character deaths, Mixed relationship, OC romances no one, Pan!Anders, Suicidal Thoughts, mentions of past rape/non-con, queerplatonic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-02-07 13:54:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1901493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allowisp/pseuds/Allowisp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Varric recruits Anders instead of Hawke recruiting Anders. Support conversations proceed accordingly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood On My Coat

**Author's Note:**

> My inspiration for this one was "What if Varric were the main character of Dragon Age II (implying he isn't already)?". And it spiraled from there. I intended to show his interactions with all the other party members, but I started with Anders, and I realized that relationship was probably all I could handle in one go.

**Blood On My Coat**

“Oh, sure,” muttered Varric as he dragged his boots through the sludge of a Darktown alley. “Sure, Hawke, I’ll get the maps for you.” 

He kicked a stray piece of rusted metal out of his way and watched it sail into a puddle of ancestors-knew-what. 

“Yeah, meet you tomorrow night at the Hanged Man. Wait in there just as cozy as you please, and let me do all the work.” 

Of course, he didn’t really mind, though he did like making a show of it. Right now he was playing the put-upon rogue, delving through the lowest points of Kirkwall with ease and just the right dose of indignation, writing the embellished tale of this particular adventure as he lived it. Truth be told, he enjoyed it; this was what he did best. If anything, he was glad the hulking Ferelden warrior wasn’t here to draw undue attention and make his job harder. 

The lead he’d started on had been a dead end; that dwarven lyrium smuggler hadn’t known a thing about the Deep Roads. But then he’d stumbled upon something else, indirectly—word of a former Grey Warden who once traveled through them. He ran a clinic here in Darktown said to work miracle cures for anything, no questions asked. 

Varric reached this clinic and turned into it. It looked rather shambly and run-down, inside and out, just like everywhere else in the neighborhood. It had beds, shelves, a couple benches—about what he’d expect. On one of these beds lay a small boy, and over him leaned a man and a woman. The woman held the boy’s hand like a lifeline, her eyes rimmed in red and her face all lined with worry. The man knelt over the boy with his head bent and his eyes closed in concentration. Blue-white energy wreathed over his hands as he held them near his patient, throwing soft light on his own clean-cut features, his blond hair that was kept from falling into his face by a tie, and the feathered shoulderpads of his coat. 

The boy slowly blinked open his eyes. He turned his head to the woman. “Mom?” 

“Oh, my boy!” cried the woman as she embraced her son. She stroked his hair and buried her face in his shoulder. 

The man who had healed him faltered as he rose to stand upright again, as though his legs barely held. He brought a hand to his temple and turned away. 

“Oh, ser, thank you,” said the woman, who now helped her son to his feet and took him by the hand. 

The man nodded to her wearily as she and her boy turned and passed through the clinic’s door. “I am only glad I could help,” he murmured. Another flash of pain apparently spiked in his head, and he winced. “Andraste’s flaming knickers, that _hurts_!” 

Varric stepped forward from the shadows. “I take it this is a bad time to be calling on you,” he ventured. 

The man looked up sharply and took in Varric’s crossbow, his balanced stance, and the way he gazed directly ahead with a glint in his eye. He twisted and grasped a staff that leaned against the wall, twirling it behind him as he raised a hand. The air hummed with a sudden whir of magical energy. “Stay back!” he warned the rogue. “I have made this place a sanctum of healing and salvation. Why do you threaten it?” 

“Save it, Blondie,” retorted Varric. “I’m not the Coterie, come to collect.” 

“I won’t go quietly to the Circle. If you—” 

“Hold it, hold it. Whoever said anything about the Circle?” Varric raised an eyebrow. “I just want to ask you a few questions. The name’s Varric. I’m part of an expedition, you see, going down into the Deep Roads. I had heard there was a former Grey Warden here who could fill me in on the experience. Name’s… Anders.” He paused. “Ring a bell?” 

The mage shook his head. “I’ve never heard of him.” 

“Oh, then that’s a pity.” Varric frowned. “That would mean you’re not the Grey Warden I took you for. That would make you just an apostate mage… and I would no longer have any reason not to turn you in to the templars. I’m sure there’d be a sizable reward for that which I could use to fund the expedition.” 

The mage’s eyes widened and flashed with electric light for an instant, and Varric worried he had gone too far… but then the mage seemed to shake it off. Slowly, he lowered his staff. He shook his head resignedly, and his shoulders sagged. “What is it that you want?” 

“I need accurate maps of the Deep Roads. Multiple entrances, escape routes, the works. We can deal with the darkspawn; I just need the maps.” Varric watched Anders as he spoke. He could swear he heard little wheels turning as the mage considered his reply. 

“All right,” said Anders at last. “I will help you, but there is one thing. After I returned from the Deep Roads, I gave what maps I had to a friend of mine who is a mage of the Circle—for safekeeping. He is now being held captive in a wing of the Chantry.” 

“You want me to break a mage out of the Circle of Magi.” Varric whistled. 

“I’ll need someone to watch my back in there in case I run into trouble. Dangerous, I know—but it’s in your best interest. Help me do this, and you will have your maps. Maker knows I won’t miss them. If I never see the Deep Roads again, I’ll be a happy man.” 

He’d perked up a bit, Varric noticed. This meant something to the mage. 

“Meet me outside the Chantry tonight,” continued Anders, “after dark.” 

“How romantic.” Varric smirked. Anders grimaced. “Oh, lighten up, Blondie. Just remember: you do your part, I’ll do mine. And then I’ll forget I ever saw you.” 

* * * 

“Follow me,” Anders whispered as they slipped through the doors. “Quickly, now.” 

They passed through hallway after hallway lined with burning incense and figures of Andraste, climbed up and down staircases carpeted over with blood-red velvet, peeked around corner after corner to find that no one was there lying in wait for the two unwelcome visitors who had come that night into the temple of the Maker. Anders was forever glancing over his shoulder past Varric like a bird that had entered a labyrinthine cage and wondered when the door would slam shut. If they were spotted, would they hear that sound, that clang, that click of a lock—or would they simply be struck down, leaving the door of that cage open for the next unfortunate victim? _Who can say_ , thought Varric, _who can say_. 

At last they reached a kind of alcove which held a few benches and shelves of books arranged around a comfortably large open space. There stood one mage before these shelves, staring at some point on the wall with no expression on his face. He didn’t appear to be a prisoner in chains. 

Anders lengthened his stride. He halted just before the unknown mage. “Karl,” he said, an odd catch in his voice. 

The stranger looked at Anders— _no_ , thought Varric, _looked right through him_. “I know you too well, Anders. I knew you would never give up.” 

“What’s wrong?” demanded Anders. “Why are you talking like—?” 

“I was too rebellious—like you. The templars knew I had to be… made an example of.” 

_This isn’t good._ Varric spun around and craned his head to look out into the corridor, but there were pillars in the way. He could swear he heard the regular pounding of plated greaves. 

Anders shook his head. “No!” 

“How else will mages ever master themselves?” Now the boots clanged right outside the door to the corridor. “You will understand, Anders—” 

A templar in full plate rounded the corner and strode inexorably towards them. 

“—as soon as the templars teach you to control yourself.” Karl gazed calmly at the templar, who was only the first of his fellows to enter. He told them, “This is the apostate.” And then he looked at Varric and said, loud enough so all the templars could hear, “Thank you, dwarf, for your assistance in bringing him here.” 

_What?_ Varric blinked. This man was Tranquil, that much was clear—but what had flashed in his eyes just then? Had it been… _defiance_? Did Karl think he could shield an accomplice of his former friend from the wrath of the templars? How much of the original man was still alive in there, or had that moment been only a shadow—a wish of the empty to be whole again, to be as he had been in his memories? 

Anders shuddered. A blinding light flashed from his eyes, and he fell to his knees. “No,” he groaned, both hands clutching his head. He hissed as lines of energy surfaced in fragmented designs all over his body. 

_That can’t be good._ Varric knelt down and clasped his shoulder. “Anders, pull yourself together. We have to—” 

Anders surged to his feet, knocking Varric back. Blue-white magic flared up all around him, then faded into smoke. When he spoke, his voice seemed to come from an echoing chasm far from the man whom Varric had followed to this place. 

“You will _never_ take another mage as you took him!” 

Anders twirled his staff, and a lancet of ice shot over Varric’s head into the first templar. It knocked him back against the wall. Anders flung another, and another, advancing across the alcove and towards the main hall. 

But the templars were shaking it off. After the first, initial shock, they merely got up. They had trained their whole lives to destroy beings such as this. One mage could never hold out against them all for long, and Varric didn’t like his chances of getting out alive if he got caught up in that kind of melee. He got to his feet somehow and dodged through the flurry of spells that still kept the templars at bay to stand beside Anders. 

“Anders, if you can hear me, keep that up!” he yelled. He drew Bianca from her place across his back and loaded her up. He aimed at one templar who was getting back onto his feet and shot him straight through the helmet. The corpse fell to the floor with a clank. 

Varric gritted his teeth and reached for another bolt. 

He didn’t know how conscious Anders was of his aid, but he and the mage fought like that for a while, back-to-back in the center of the space, whirling to fire their ranged attacks in all directions. Varric was still sighting down Bianca’s stock, looking for his next target, when he heard Anders’s staff clatter to the ground beside them. He looked up to find that the lines of energy were gone from the mage’s skin, the mad light gone too from his eyes. 

Anders staggered slightly, then turned to Karl, who stood barely apart from the scene of the combat. 

“I—Anders, what did you do?” Karl faltered. “It’s like… you brought a piece of the Fade into this world. I had already forgotten what that _feels_ like.” 

Varric glanced from him to Anders. “What _was_ that? What happened to you?” 

“An unenviable fate,” answered Anders quietly. Then, to Karl: “But, please—how did they get you?” 

“The templars here are far more vigilant than in Ferelden. They found the letter I was writing you.” He shuddered. “You cannot imagine it, Anders. All the color, all the music in the world… gone!” 

“No stories?” asked Varric. The thought disturbed him. 

“No stories, alas; they are beyond me now. No tales to gladden the heart, no zest and no life. I would gladly give up my magic, but this—I’ll never be whole again. Please, kill me before I forget again! I don’t know how you brought it back, but it’s fading.” 

“Can’t we… I don’t know…” Varric, almost never at a loss for words, now found it difficult to speak. “…cure him, or something?” 

“You can’t cure a beheading,” snapped Anders. “The dreams of Tranquil mages are severed. There is nothing left of them to fix, nothing that will stay.” Yet still he hesitated. 

“I would rather die a mage,” Karl pleaded, “then live as a Templar puppet. Anders, if you will not help me—” He turned to Varric. “—then I must ask your companion. I cannot exist as a shell.” 

_No stories, no tales to gladden the heart._

“Maybe there is something,” Varric muttered. He pulled a knife from his belt, making Anders draw a breath, but he merely held it out and pressed it hilt-first into Karl’s hand until he held it on his own. “There, that’s it. Now, I’m going to tell you something. You’ve got to hold on while I say it, all right? Stay with us. You’ve got to try.” 

Karl nodded. Varric drew a deep breath and mustered his thoughts. 

“In a land not so very far from where we are now, there lived a man in a room made of stone. It had a single window through which the man looked every day, wishing he could escape and walk free in the world outside which seemed so beautiful. He spent all his time staring out of this window and beating against it in vain. 

“A day came when the man reached the deepest point of his despair. He gave a great yell and charged headlong at the window, desperate to break free. It shattered into pieces, sure enough—but there was only another cold stone wall behind it. 

“Now, this sounds like a very depressing story, I know. But that’s because I haven’t been completely honest. The window, you see… it wasn’t a window at all. It was a mirror. The man had only to turn around and see that the whole world was within his grasp.” 

“Yet sometimes we are blind,” whispered Karl. His grip tightened around the knife. 

Varric nodded once, although he sensed that Karl was no longer watching. He touched Anders on the shoulder, then gestured to the opening to the main corridor. “We should go,” he said, “before more templars arrive.” 

Anders kept his eyes on Karl as he picked up his staff, loath to leave. “I got here too late,” he said. “I’m so sorry.” 

Karl furrowed his brow. “Why do you look at me like that?” 

“Anders.” Varric beckoned again. After another long moment, Anders followed. 

“It was fading,” Anders said as they retraced their steps out of the Chantry. “I could tell.” 

“Not fast enough, though.” Varric patted the empty dagger sheath at his belt. “Not fast enough.” 

Karl had salvaged himself in the end, decided Varric. He had found the strength to spare Anders a grisly task. Varric, certainly, would not have wanted a friend’s blood on his hands. No one would. 

He shook his head, wondering why he was still thinking about it. They had gotten out all right. The battle was done. The great story went on, and Varric would live to tell his own versions of it another day. 

* * * 

After they exited the Chantry, Varric accompanied Anders back to his clinic. Try though he might, Varric could not tell exactly what the mage beside him was thinking. It seemed as though Anders wanted to speak but could not force the words past a lump in his throat, or so Varric judged from the way his jaw worked and the clench of his fingers upon his staff. 

Once they returned to the clinic, Anders strode towards the back. He began to rifle through a rack of drawers. “That story,” he said at last, absently. “Where did you hear it?” 

“Just a folk tale from some elven alienage,” said Varric as he followed and sat down upon the edge of a cot. “I changed it up it a bit.” He watched Anders pore through drawer after drawer. He barely seemed to look at the contents. “Hey, back there… You all right, Blondie?” 

Anders paused. He glanced back at the dwarf briefly. 

“Just thought I’d ask,” said Varric. 

“Shouldn’t you be asking where those maps are instead?” 

Varric shrugged. “We’ll get to them. I just can’t help but wonder what your story is, Anders.” 

“There’s an awful lot of it to tell.” 

“I’m all ears. Anything you want to say, spit it out.” 

“Anything?” Anders turned from the drawers, a sad, wry half-smile on his lips. “Be careful what you offer.” 

Varric laughed. “I meant it. Go ahead.” 

“If you’re sure…” Anders hesitated. “Perhaps looking back a bit _will_ do me good, though I hardly know where to start.” Anders took a seat on the cot beside Varric’s so that they sat across from one another. 

“I was taken to the Circle of Magi in Ferelden when I was still a child,” he began. “I didn’t want to go, but the templars… they didn’t give me a choice. They locked me up tight and then threw the key away down some mabari’s gullet.” He sighed and muttered, “That must be why I’m a cat person. I used to have one, you know. He’s the only thing I miss about the Tower.” 

“They let you have a cat?” 

“Not exactly.” Anders chuckled. “No matter what corner of that place they shoved me into, he’d find a way in. There were days when the only person I saw was that stupid cat—well, except for him not being a person. Still, I liked him. Poor Mr. Wiggums.” 

“You actually called him that?” Varric laughed until he caught the look on Anders’s face. Here the man was, confiding in some dwarf he barely knew, and he had laughed. Well done, Varric. “No, no, it’s fine. Look.” He reached over his shoulder and patted his crossbow. “This right here is Bianca. She never lets me down.” 

“You named your crossbow?” Anders grinned. “Ah, well. Hello, Bianca.” 

“There’s a story behind that one, too,” said Varric, “but let’s save it for another day. I’d rather hear about how you gave those templars the slip.” 

“Well, it took me a while. After my seventh escape attempt, you’d think they’d have given me credit for trying.” 

“ _Seven_?” 

“They always sent the same lady templar after me, too.” 

“I bet she volunteered.” 

“That’s what I always thought!” Anders beamed. “She met a rather nasty end, though, along with the rest of her squad. That last time, not long after they caught up to me, a bunch of darkspawn jumped us all. The templars didn’t last long, but I got my hands free in the fighting and burned those darkspawn to a crisp. That’s when the Warden came along, and you probably know how it went from there.” 

“Of course,” said Varric, “though not your part in it all.” 

“Then the blighted Warden did something right, at least,” said Anders. “Kept my side of it quiet. That’s why they haven’t been after me—well, not more than usual.” He shook his head abruptly and got to his feet. “There’s an exciting bit later on about a keep and a horde of darkspawn, but I think I’ve said enough. You’ll be wanting those maps.” 

Varric would have protested, but he saw the mage’s tired countenance and decided not to press him. He’d had a long night, after all. No use making it longer by keeping him awake. He waited as the mage searched through the last unopened drawer until he found a few worn rolls of paper. Anders handed these to Varric and watched as he unrolled them. 

Varric raised his eyebrows, impressed. “These are exactly what we need. Just _beautiful_.” 

“Just remember that the Deep Roads shift often,” said Anders. “You might run into troubles we never marked there.” 

“Thanks for the tip, human.” Varric rolled up the maps. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to suggest—” 

Varric smirked and threw his hand up in one last wave as he turned to go. “Save it, Blondie. No harm done.” The ruined wooden door swung shut behind him, and he disappeared into the night. 

* * * 

Varric spent the rest of that night and the whole next day holed up in the Hanged Man, taking care of business affairs and making a bit of extra coin while he waited for Hawke to drop by. He was midway through a tale about a banished prince when the tavern’s door creaked open. A hulking, hard-looking man entered and then closed the door behind him. He wore battered, heavy armor and carried a two-handed sword with an ornate but tarnished pommel slung across his back. His dark hair and close-trimmed beard framed a face with amber eyes and a curious mark like a smear of splattered blood. He took a place near the back of the crowd and listened patiently as Varric wrapped things up, then approached him after the tale’s gut-wrenching end. 

“Hey there, Hawke!” Varric hailed him. 

The warrior nodded once, wearily. “Varric.” 

“Come on, sit down. Have I got news for you!” 

“What have you found?” 

They settled into two chairs at a table in the corner where Varric had stowed his pack. The dwarf pulled out the maps he had acquired the previous night and passed them to Hawke. “Everything we need is right here.” 

Hawke unfurled the maps. He frowned and traced the multiple routes with a finger, poring over their astonishing precision and detail. “How recent are these?” he asked, his brow furrowing, “How did you come by them?” 

“You remember that Warden who went into the Deep Roads? Well, I tracked down one of her old associates, and he was kind enough to give me the very maps she used in her own travels, so they date back to then.” 

“So these routes—they could have shifted?” 

“It’s possible. We won’t know for sure until we get down there, though, and these are the best chance we’ve got.” 

“Fair enough,” conceded Hawke. Then: “Who was this old associate?” 

“Oh, just one of my contacts. The guy’s living quietly now—likes his privacy.” 

“All the same—” 

Varric shook his head. 

“Damn it, Varric—” Hawke cursed, then stopped himself abruptly. He drew a grime-streaked hand across his face and sighed. “No, I’m sorry. You’re right. You’ve done well. It’s just—” 

“Long day?” 

“Yes,” admitted Hawke. “I haven’t slept.” 

“Go home, then,” Varric told him. “Get some rest, and remember to send word to me if anything changes.” 

* * * 

Varric knew that Hawke still had quite a bit of money to dredge up before he could buy his way into the expedition, so there was little point in spending another day cooped up in the Hanged Man waiting for him to turn up. Instead, Varric headed out into the streets and through Lowtown, rounding the corners of increasingly neglected thoroughfares. Eventually they brought him to the aptly-named district of Darktown. Its shambled walls and rooftops closed in around and above him even as the street’s muck rose up to squelch at the soles of his boots. He pressed on through the waste and refuse, hailing no one as he passed, for the people’s faces were all downturned and their sunken eyes unseeing. 

Varric imagined waking up here every day, with nothing but the stench of sweat and sewage to offer greeting in the morning, nothing but a gnawing hunger to occupy the mind. Surely even those lucky enough to own a shack to crawl into at night could feel it. The _despair_ in this place… it was suffocating. 

Varric stopped at last outside the clinic he had visited two days ago, swung open the door, and slipped inside. 

The clinic was empty save for that lone mage, Anders, who had been attempting to tidy the place a bit. The creaking of hinges alerted him to Varric’s arrival, and so he turned about with a puzzled frown as he dusted off his hands. 

“For a miracle worker, you sure don’t have many visitors,” commented Varric as he closed the door behind him. 

“No, I’m afraid not.” Anders, after a moment’s hesitation, offered a small smile. 

Varric took a careful step forward. “I hope you don’t mind if I—” 

“Yes, of course.” Anders waved him closer so they could stand face to face. “I have to say, I didn’t expect to see you again.” 

“I could say the same for you, Blondie. I thought you’d run for the hills.” 

“Oh, is it too late for that now?” Anders gave a mock sigh. “I was so hoping to get two good nights’ sleep before making my escape under the cover of broad daylight.” 

“A brilliant plan.” 

“They’d never expect it.” 

“I certainly didn’t.” 

Anders chuckled. “So why are you here, Varric?” 

“I just wanted to check in, see how you were.” 

“Do you intend to blackmail me again?” 

It was a joke, Varric knew, but humor often thinly veiled the truth. Anders had good reason to distrust him after he had threatened to turn the mage in to the templars. If this trek into Darktown were not to be wasted, he would have to address this distrust properly. He would have to make his response to Anders count. 

“The truth is, Anders,” said Varric slowly, “that when I first walked into this clinic two days ago, all I wanted were those maps. I said what I had to say to get them. I told you the right story.” He weighed each word on his tongue, tasting it for merit before he gave it sound. “I would have played it out as far as I needed to, maybe even dragged you to the Chantry and thrown you at the doors—but no further, do you understand me?” 

Anders’s brow furrowed. “Not even to fund your expedition?” 

“There’s no reward for bringing in apostates. It’s a tale Meredith spins for herself so she can catch their accomplices, those close enough to them to know the truth.” 

“I believe it,” said Anders bitterly, his distaste for the knight-commander clear. 

Varric raised an eyebrow. “I take it you’ve met.” 

“Oh, no, thank Andraste. I don’t think I could take that much righteous fury up close.” Anders shuddered. “But what about your plan to forget you ever saw me?” 

“Also a lie,” Varric told him. 

“I’m actually… rather glad to hear that.” Anders gestured to a bench. “Come on then, sit down. I could use a break.” 

“So you don’t get many visitors,” mused Varric as they settled down to talk. “How about donations?” 

Anders sighed and shook his head. “These people are poor, Varric. They come to me because they’ve nowhere else to go, and I don’t ask for payment. They’re grateful, of course, so they give what they can, but that doesn’t amount to much. And what little I do get—” 

THUD. 

They both glanced toward the door. 

THUD. 

_Who knocks in Darktown?_ thought Varric, sardonically. Then it hit him. _People who want to build suspense. Uninvited guests. The Coterie._

Varric stood and marched toward the door. 

He heard Anders rise abruptly behind him. “Varric—” 

Varric cut him off. “I know,” he said, and then opened the door. 

The Coterie thug paused, fist already raised to knock again. Inconsistent sunlight glinted off the studs on her leather armor, and also off the hilts of the twin daggers at her belt. She opened her mouth to speak, and then she closed it, confused. 

“Down here,” said Varric shortly. 

“Ah—what?” She looked down. “Wait a minute… Varric? What are you doing here?” 

“Morning, Velona.” Varric grinned at her icily. “Why don’t we… step outside for a moment?” 

The human thug got over her perplexion and peered over him into the clinic, no doubt examining Anders who stood several paces back from the doorway. Then she shrugged. “Fine, Varric. Let’s take a walk.” 

Anders shifted behind him. “Varric—” 

Varric ignored the note of urgency in the mage’s voice. “That’s the spirit,” he told Velona. He stretched as he stepped out into the dismal Darktown street. 

Familiar smells washed over him, familiar sensations. Pain, silence, and death. This place was full of them all, day and night. There was no escape from it. There was no refuge. 

Yet some did manage to survive in Darktown. One man in particular tried to make this dead end a sanctuary. What had he called it? _A sanctum of healing and salvation._ Varric shook his head. Hope of the kind which Anders held should not have survived in Darktown. It should have been massacred by the darkspawn; it should have suffocated in the Circle Tower. It should have been ripped from him as the templars tore him from his home… no, when he had first been branded a mage. 

“Wait!” protested Anders. 

“Come on, Anders.” Varric flashed the mage his most rakish grin. “High-class lady like this comes calling, I have to take her out.” 

The rough, scarred rogue behind him snorted. 

“Back in a flash, Blondie.” Varric winked. “Trust me.” 

He closed the door behind him. 

* * * 

“Careful, Velona,” cautioned Varric as he hopped over a gutter. “Don’t want to go soiling those pretty shoes of yours.” 

Velona just shook her head at him. She stepped directly in that stinking gutter with her already stained and muddy boot. When she lifted that foot up again and continued on her way, he honestly couldn’t tell the difference. 

“Anyway, as I was saying,” the dwarf went on, stepping deftly around the puddles of muck, “I just don’t understand why you even _bother_ extorting Anders. You couldn’t be spending your time more unprofitably if you _tried._ What are you getting, a few coppers?” 

They passed a homeless child, near-indistinguishable from the dirt, who stretched out thin and pleading fingers—mere bones underneath a taut cover of skin. Varric plunged a hand into his coin purse and drew forth a handful of coppers. He cast them down around the child, who gasped thanks at Varric’s back, and then he looked inquiringly at Velona. “Want some?” he demanded, reaching for his purse again. 

“Point taken, Varric.” Velona looked away. “Look,” she said, “I know it’s bad business, but this is about the Coterie’s reputation. Anders isn’t exactly quiet about being an apostate, not if you ask the right people. If we go soft on him, it’ll look like we’re afraid—and down here, it’s fear that calls the sharks.” 

“Fear, Velona?” asked Varric. He stopped abruptly. “What do you know about fear?” 

In that moment, Velona realized just how remote the alley they traveled through was. How utterly dark. How bloodstained. 

She reached for her daggers. Her fingers touched their hilts. Her grip closed around them… 

Varric’s hand shot up and gripped her tunic, close to the neck. He wrenched her sideways and down with perfect leverage. She hit the sordid ground before she knew what had happened, glimpsing only a flash of Varric’s coat. Her left arm and dagger were trapped under her, so she lashed out with her right alone. 

She cut something she couldn’t see and heard a grunt of pain, but before she could roll to her feet, a calloused hand closed its vice grip on her wrist. Then it twisted until her bones creaked and her vision swam with stars. She was forced to drop her weapon and lay there panting, screaming for relief. It never came, not completely. The pain only lessened when she felt a lighter grip on her neck—soon replaced by the thin press of a cold steel dagger’s edge against her throat. 

She froze. 

“Shouldn’t have tried to draw this,” whispered Varric from above, mere inches from Velona’s ear. He settled on her side, straddling her torso, pinning her down with his weight. He released her wrist—she sighed as the agony faded to a dull ache–and shifted that hand to her neck, beside the dagger, squeezing just enough so that she struggled to breathe. 

“Pity you’re not into humans, Varric,” Velona choked out. 

“Oh, yes, Velona. Quite a pity for you.” Varric’s grip tightened. 

“Wait!” She coughed. “Please! What do you want? That apostate—why do you care?” 

“Fear’s a disease on this city, Velona,” said Varric, “and disease is bad for business. You and yours have been sowing it like weeds in a garden, and I’ve decided that I’ve finally had enough. I can break your Coterie, Velona. It’s rotten to the core.” 

She tried to gurgle a response, but his grip on her windpipe choked it off. 

“You want to use fear, you had damn well better understand it. You had damn well better know that it can kill whole civilizations. Just one spark, that’s all it takes. If Kirkwall keeps going the way it’s going right now, what do you think’s going to happen everywhere else? This city is the place where all the threads of fate cross. If something here breaks, the whole world goes to hell. All those mages and Templars and elves and Qunari and refugees need is an _excuse_ , you hear me? They get it, and… well…” Varric barked out a harsh laugh. “That would be _very_ bad for business. Yours, and mine.” 

Varric’s grip on Velona’s neck finally eased up. Finally, he let go, and he withdrew the blade from her neck. She gasped in deep breaths, filling her lungs. Blackness she’d barely even been aware of faded from the corners of her vision. 

“No sudden moves, now,” cautioned Varric, standing up. He stepped away from her prone body. 

“But… I don’t…” Velona coughed again. She watched Varric out of the corner of her eye as she sat up slowly, then brought a hand to her neck to massage it. The dwarf appeared completely relaxed as he checked himself over for injuries. Then again, that was just Varric, she thought to herself. You never knew with Varric. 

“Why now?” she asked him, hoarse. “Why this mage? You were always…” She coughed again. “You never…” 

“Because I like him,” retorted Varric bluntly. Then he blinked. “Oh. You mean my speech.” He shrugged—and winced as the motion pulled at the long and jagged cut freshly scored across his chest. “Stone that sunk the galleon, I guess.” He walked back over and offered her a hand. “Come on, then. Get up.” 

She stared at him. “What?” 

“I didn’t bring you out here just because I like to talk and love an audience,” Varric told her. “And we’ve already established it wasn’t so I could get a human female flat on her back.” 

“Get to the point, Varric.” 

“I’ve got orders for you, Velona, because you answer to me now.” 

“Now, hold your miniature horses—” 

“Oh, put a buckshot of lyrium in it. You’re not even bleeding.” Varric spread his arms wide, displaying her cut to his chest. “And shove that dagger in the widest gap you’ve got, because you had better believe I see you reaching for it.” 

Disgruntled, Velona crossed her arms. 

“That’s better.” Varric nodded to her and took a seat on a nearby overturned barrel. “Now, you know I’m a good boss. I’ll pay you well for all your errands, and I won’t make unreasonable demands. All I ask is that you join my ears in the Coterie… and, of course, that you lay off of Anders.” Varric smiled. “Meetup place is the Hanged Man. What do you say, Velona? Interested?” 

“Anders, huh. That mage again.” Velona shook her head. “Look, I’ll see what I can do. If you’ll front me a small fee every week, I can tell my superiors that he and I have finally come to an arrangement.” 

“It’s a start.” Varric stood up and offered her his hand again. “Now, a truce. Consider this whole episode payback for the Docks, if you like.” 

“Oh, hell no.” Velona smirked and accepted his hand. “Back there, I got you way, way better than this.” She stood up shakily with Varric’s aid and then retrieved her fallen dagger, wiping off the thin layer of grime it had accrued upon impact with the Darktown ground before slipping it smoothly back into its sheath. 

“Quite right,” acknowledged Varric. “So it can be assumed my full revenge is still forthcoming.” 

“You bastard,” muttered Velona. 

They trudged down the alley, side by side, looking for all the world like two old enemies who hadn’t quite the naïveté to call themselves friends. 

* * * 

Varric stepped back into the clinic and closed the door gently behind him. He winced—his wound _hurt_ —and searched around through squinted eyes for Anders, who ought to have been easy to spot in the otherwise deserted clinic. 

Instead, it took even Varric’s sharp eyes a moment to find the mage sprawled on a cot in the back corner, almost obscured by a torn beige tarp hanging beside it. The worn setup was likely the closest Anders had to his own room and to privacy in the clinic which he kept open and unlocked even through the worst hours of the night. 

Odd time to sleep, Varric thought to himself. It was barely even noon. Anders couldn’t be sleeping well if he’d collapsed again after so few hours of light. 

Varric couldn’t bring himself to disturb him, so he simply went over to the cabinet he had watched Anders dig through the other night after they snuck into the Chantry. He found it strewn with medical supplies—clean, certainly, but haphazard. Varric had plenty of practice in tending to his own wounds, so he knew what to look for. He took some iodine, a needle and thread, and a span of pure white linen, then found a basin of water and got a fire going in the hearth. He’d set a kettle on it and almost had the water to a boil when he heard Anders waking up behind him. 

“Morning, Blondie,” called Varric cheerfully, giving him a wave small enough that the motion only barely pulled at his torn skin, which was beginning to really burn worse than a lava gorge. 

“Varric?” Anders rubbed his eyes and swung his still-booted feet down to the floor. He covered a yawn as he stood up and made his way over to the cracked hearth. “What are you doing?” 

“Oh, nothing.” Varric casually shifted so that Anders could see the bloody tear in his skin. “Just a little patch-up work.” 

“Oh, Andraste.” Anders’s breath hissed, and he hurried forward and knelt down beside Varric as the dwarf sat back to let the healer take a closer look. “This looks bad,” Anders murmured as he carefully unbuttoned Varric’s coat, eyes widening at the length of the laceration. “What happened to you?” 

Varric shrugged the coat off his shoulders. “The lovely lady and I had a bit of a… disagreement.” 

Anders just shook his head. His fingers hovered above the wound. “I know my healing magic won’t do you much good,” he told Varric, “but I can still burn away any infection.” A blue-white light began to wreathe around his hands. “Stay still. I’ll need to flush this out and clean the skin around as well.” 

Varric sat patiently as Anders alternated between waves of his magic and hot, clean water, as well as the occasional dose of iodine, and felt his wound’s beginning burn of fever fade away. It still hurt, no doubt about that, but at least the blood still seeping out of it was clean. Varric even began to relax as Anders worked on him with calm determination, hands unfailingly gentle and careful, entirely focused on his task. The sunlight beaming down on him from the gaps in the roof was smoky and diluted, but it nonetheless lent the lighter strands of his hair an almost golden hue. And when Varric looked carefully, he discovered a similarly warm glow in the mage’s concerned eyes. 

“—ound, Varric.” 

Varric blinked. “Sorry, Blondie. What was that?” 

“I’ve got your wound ready to be stitched up, Varric.” 

“All right, then. Go ahead. I won’t squeal, I promise.” 

Anders smiled. “I will do what I can to dull the pain,’ he promised, heating the needle in the fire and then threading it. He placed his free hand against Varric’s chest, and Varric could feel his warmth and the texture of the lightest of callouses on his palm and fingers. Then he made the first stitch, and Varric winced. 

Just as quickly as he felt it, the pain left him, replaced by a sensation like a wash of cool water from Anders’s palm against his chest. 

“I’m surprised you knew what to do for this,” Anders remarked as he made a second stitch. Varric felt the same stab of pain, followed by the same rapid easing. Anders cut the thread and tied it off, then threaded the needle again. 

“I’ve been stitched back together often enough to get the general idea,” said Varric. “Hot water, disinfectant, needle and thread. Just don’t get them out of order, and you’re all right.” 

Anders nodded. “All the same, you should have woken me up. This cut isn’t deep, but it will give you some trouble. It’s not often I see someone get sliced like this in one motion.” 

“That’s Velona for you.” Varric made to stretch, but then thought better of it. “And she didn’t even have a halfway clear shot.” 

Anders’s fingers stalled in their sewing. “I’m sorry,” he told Varric, lifting his head upward to look the dwarf in the eye. “It’s my fault you were injured. If I hadn’t—” 

“Oh, believe me, Velona and I had a row well and coming,” Varric cut him off, shaking his head. “We’ve got to clear the air every now and then. We keep each other sharp, I suppose you could say—and sane. In my line of work, rivalry like ours is about the closest business partners get to being friends.” 

Anders’s brow furrowed. “I’m afraid I don’t follow you.” 

“I suppose you wouldn’t, Anders.” Varric motioned for Anders to begin sewing again, and grunted in pain at the next stitch. “It’s because you’re still honest. You’re not a liar—like me. The best way I can explain it is that a rival… understands you. You may not be on the same side all the time, but at least you each know where the other stands. When you live by lies and intrigue the rest of your life, that kind of understanding is a welcome break.” 

Anders remained silent for a moment. Then: “I wouldn’t even want to live like that.” 

“And that’s exactly why you shouldn’t, Anders. But some of us enjoy it—or, at least, we think we do.” 

Anders finished stitching Varric up and gathered his supplies. He put them away in the clinic’s cabinet and returned to the dwarf with a plain glass bottle. 

“Medicine,” he explained, “to speed your healing and wipe out any traces of infection.” He handed it to Varric, who had just finished donning and refastening his coat. “Take it easy for the next couple of weeks. Don’t stretch your arms above your shoulders or do anything else that pulls at your stitches. No combat, if you can help it. Come and see me in a few days, or if you feel worse before then.” 

Varric nodded to him and stood up slowly from the cot. “Thanks, Anders,” he said, as the mage reached out to steady him. “I’ll be back to see you soon. You can count on it.” 

Anders, the healer who lived alone in his clinic at the dead end of a Darktown alley, and who always kept a lit lantern hanging outside, smiled with painful hesitation at Varric as the two walked to the door. “You’re welcome here anytime, Varric,” he said. The door swung open wide. “I will not forget all that you’ve done for me.” 

Varric sighed inwardly; Anders, so sincerely kind to everyone he met, still could not believe that kindness would ever be returned. He stepped outside, turned back to Anders, and raised a hand in farewell. 

“I’ve been wanting to make an honest friend for a good long while, Anders,” said Varric. “So please, don’t pretend that we’re just trading favors.” 

* * * 

The Deep Roads were hell. That was all Hawke had to say about them. Damn the darkspawn and damn the expedition, he didn’t care anymore. 

The Templars took Bethany while he was away. He didn’t blame them; instead, he blamed himself. They had carried out their duty while he had failed in his own. 

One more failure to the account of Garrett Hawke. 

He was beginning to realize the world was killing him, piece by piece. His father was dead, as was his brother. His home was destroyed. And now he had lost his sister. 

He could never hate his sister for being born a mage. Instead, he hated the magic shot through their line. It was a curse. It should be purged away. 

_No, I don’t mean that!_ Hawke almost dropped his ale. “No, not Bethany!” His words came out strangled. “Don’t be Tranquil. Not her…” 

Hawke thought he caught a pitying look from Varric, but it was hard to tell after what he thought was his fifth drink. The dwarf sat with him at his table, saying nothing at all, his presence ensuring the bartender was quick with the refills. He suspected that no one was keeping track of the tab. 

He was grateful for that, at least. Coin was a thing to be spent on food, or on repairs for his armor. He could afford nothing else once those necessities were paid for. 

Perhaps a day would come when he no longer had to fight. Until then, he would drown his impossible budding hopes amid darkness, lest they grow painful thorns. 

He looked up across the table at Varric. He noticed with a muted start that the dwarf had two empty tankards set out before him and was working on the dregs of a third. Varric, of course, had his own loss to bear, after losing his own brother to the lyrium artifact. No one could understand why he drank tonight better than Hawke. 

And yet the merchant prince also owned so much that Hawke had never known. 

“Varric,” managed Hawke over the roar of the tavern. 

Varric cocked an eyebrow, took a final gulp of his ale, and slammed his empty tankard down on the table. 

“What’s it like… running an empire?” 

Varric slid his tankard smoothly away. “Horrible,” he answered Hawke, his words barely slurred. “Don’t you ever wish for it, Blondie.” 

Hawke shook his head blearily. “I’m not so drunk you can convince me I’m blonde, Varric,” he retorted. “Or that being rich is a bad… bad idea.” 

Varric stared at him for a moment. Then he blinked and shook his head. “Ah, well,” he replied, adopting a rueful grin. “It was worth a try.” 

* * * 

**_This is not enough._**

The thought thundered through Anders’s consciousness, aggravating his already pounding headache. He brought a hand to his temple and pressed the other against a wall for support. 

_This has to be enough,_ he thought to Justice. _I can do no more_. His fatigued body and overtaxed mind were proof enough of that. 

**_You are forgetting our purpose._** An image flashed before Anders’s eyes: a branded mage in a Chantry alcove, a face Anders still wept to remember. 

_No,_ he snapped back. _I will never forget Karl. What they did to him… what they did to me—and to others like me—in that Circle Tower was beyond madness._

_**It was a perversion of justice.**_

Anders laughed jarringly, without mirth. _And we are not?_

_**We remember what is right, and we know what must be done.**_

_Yes,_ acknowledged Anders, drawing himself up with a sigh. 

He had labored all morning over a young elf with a bad stab wound. She had taken a dagger to the gut after mouthing off to some human thug who thought elves who strayed from their Alienage deserved no better. He had escorted her and the human who brought her in home, and then returned to his clinic. He had only just finished cleaning up the blood—without magic, for healing the young elf had left him drained. 

**_You exhaust yourself, and yet you do no lasting good._**

“Yes!” snapped Anders. He plunged his bloodied hands into a basin of water and began to scrub them clean. “The eternal problem of mankind! We push our great rocks up an ever-steeper hill! That is an adequate summary of our lives!” 

In the wake of this reply, Justice sank back into silence. 

It was well past noon before the door of Anders’s clinic creaked open again, heralding a visitor. Anders turned away from the well-thumbed book he had been reading, a tale of Kirkwall’s dismal history, to find an unexpected but nonetheless welcome face staring back in at him from the alley. 

**_It is the dwarf again._**

Anders jumped up. “Varric!” 

**_I do not like him._**

“Good to see you, too, Blondie,” Varric hailed him. The dwarf was smiling, albeit wearily, and his eyes bore the marks of sleepless nights. “What can I say? We’re back.” 

**_He is a distraction._**

“Oh.” Anders felt his own smile fade. He remembered his first few days back on the surface after his time in the Deep Roads. He had jumped at shadows, shrunk away from the sun. Darktown definitely was not the place to waltz about in when one felt like a spindly bird sprung from a fox coop. “Please, sit down.” 

_He is my friend._

Varric nodded gratefully. He and Anders each took a seat by the hearth, for it was a cold, ash-blackened afternoon, and some coals still glowed alive amid the cinders of the fire Anders had lit to heat water earlier that morning. On a whim, Anders spent a bare spark of his remaining magic to stoke it, and the coals flared up to new life. 

**_You should not trust him so._**

Anders set a sprig of wood atop the coals, and it caught. He added larger kindling, piece by piece, until eventually he had a whole chunk of timber smoldering. He sat back, satisfied, and sighed contentedly at the new warmth which filled the clinic. 

_I have been alone for so long, Justice._

He heard the muted creaking of leather as Varric shifted beside him. He hadn’t heard it in well over two weeks, nor any other sound reminding him that his newfound friend was nearby. He had missed such small things far too much since the dwarf’s last visit, when he had come by on the morning of the expedition to say a quick farewell. 

“Anders,” said Varric suddenly, “I’ve been working on a story.” 

There was one of the things he had missed: the dwarf’s passion for words. Varric had told Anders many a story across his visits to the healer’s clinic in Darktown. Some concerned adventure, some intrigue, and Varric could always bring them vividly to life. The tale Anders remembered best, however, hit a little more close to home—and yet far enough away to make him wonder. 

A boy had burst into Anders’s clinic late one evening, pathetically sobbing, blood pouring from the stump of one arm. Anders and Varric had broken off their conversation midsentence, and Anders had rushed forward and made the boy lie down on a cot. Anders had stopped the worst of the bleeding and then begun to work to heal the ruined flesh, oblivious to everything except the magic he channeled into the wound which would never be an arm again. When he had done all he could do and the new-grown skin over the bone’s knob was merely pink, he let go and allowed his head to fall forward. He slumped against the boy’s bloodstained chest—which, to his surprise, now rose and fell in the even pattern of sleep. 

Everything in him seemed sluggish. He could not even feel Justice. 

Yet he became aware of a familiar voice speaking then, reaching him clearly despite the leaden fog upon his mind. 

“… and the kittens all thanked the golden Mabari hound, who had kept them warm all through the blizzard.” 

_Bedtime story,_ thought Anders, furrowing his brow. _What… and who would…_

Fingertips gently touched his temple. “Come on, Anders. Story time’s over. Time for all good mages to go to bed.” And he had been helped, barely coherent, back to his low cot in the corner. 

The boy had asked where the nice dwarf was in the morning, and Anders had told him honestly that he did not know. 

It had taken his exhausted mind a good, long while to realize whom Varric had really written that story for. 

And one day and a night after telling it, Varric had returned to bid him a hasty farewell before he departed for the Deep Roads. 

“I’ve been working on a story,” continued Varric, “but I can’t seem to finish it.” 

“That’s not like you,” said Anders. 

Varric drummed his fingers against the bench on which they sat, feet barely touching the ground. He leaned forward, gazing into the fire. 

**Start talking, dwarf.**

This silence was not like him, either, thought Anders. The worry that had left him when he saw that Varric had returned safely began creeping into him again. “Are you all right, Varric?” he asked. “Is there something I can do?” 

**They tell me you’re good at it.**

“Maybe I can help,” said Anders, but Varric did not respond. He only watched the fire as it crackled and spat like the limbs of a crystal tree breaking. “Varric…” 

The dwarf glanced at him sidelong. His eyes were very tired. 

What do you want to know?

“For what it’s worth…” Anders hesitated. “I’m here. I’ll listen… to your story, or anything else you want to say.” 

“Anything?” returned Varric wryly. “Be careful what you offer.” 

Anders couldn’t help smiling. “I meant it. Go ahead.” 

And then Varric talked for a long time. 

**Everything.**

* * * 

Night crept quite early into the slums of Darktown. Darkness had fallen by the time Varric finished his tale. He told of his bloodline and the exile of House Tethras. He mentioned that he was born and raised on the surface, and he alluded to the members of his family who had left him one by one. 

He went on for a long while about what it was he did in Kirkwall, and made Anders laugh at all the ways he had avoided meetings with the Dwarven Merchants Guild. He expounded on the virtues of the Hanged Man as a tavern, and made Anders promise to drop by and see it for himself, even if he didn’t drink. He told of Hawke, a name Anders had only heard in passing from other lips, and of his motley crew of companions. 

Then he sank again into the weightier subjects, relating his trek through the Deep Roads, with their darkspawn, their demons, and his brother Bartrand’s betrayal. He tied it all up with a summary of the trip home, and the buyers he had in mind for some of the more curious loot. 

They sat now in an unempty silence, one that neither felt the need to fill with words, as there was nothing left to be said. Anders still had secrets, make no mistake, but he felt that enough had been shared in one sitting. He could have spoken, and Varric would have listened, he was sure. That knowledge was enough for him—no, it was far more than enough. More than he could ever have hoped for. 

**_He is not telling you the whole truth._**

_Please, Justice. Leave me be._ Anders clung to the tentative feeling of peace which had grown within him. 

**_He is a liar. He has said it himself._**

The fire in the hearth had burned down into coals, but strangely, Anders felt no less warm. They formed a lava-colored mound that shone out with soft, steady light, which gave Varric’s skin a fiery cast. The dwarf sat beside him, his breathing even and his eyes half-closed. _I believe he was lying then, too._

Anders found himself noticing more in Varric the longer he looked. Those small changes in his expression now meant that he was thinking. His eyes were like sun-heated stones as they soaked in the light of the fire. And his stillness meant he was content to remain, oblivious as Anders struggled with the spirit of Justice in his mind. 

**_You are biased,_** insisted Justice. **_Your logic is flawed._**

Anders found he had to look away from Varric’s face to keep from unconsciously leaning any closer. Still, his eyes fell on leather-draped shoulders, an exposed chest, and quick hands. Those parts had found their way into the mage’s dreams of late in ways Anders would have been ashamed of if Varric knew. _There is nothing of logic in this._

_**When will you see reason?**_ The harsh demand thundered through his brain. **_Your human passions are fickle! Cast them aside, before you lose yourself to them!_**

_Justice, I am lost._ Anders squeezed his eyes shut and saw lightning swimming around the edges of his eyelids. _My mind and my body are no longer mine alone. My heart is all that is left to me, now._

_**You chose this.**_ A reminder. ** _We chose this._**

_I am still human, Justice._

**_And he is a dwarf._**

_What would you have me do?_ Anders bowed his head, tired to his bones. _Send him away? Do you really think I could survive that?_

**_Tell him what we are. See then what sentiment he could ever feel for an abomination._**

“I can’t,” Anders whispered. 

**_See then that your trust in him is as misguided as what you allowed to grow in you for that Circle mage._**

Anders fought a pricking heat behind his eyes. “How can you—” 

“Anders?” 

Anders opened his eyes to find Varric looking at him questioningly. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“It’s nothing.” Anders looked away. “Just… a headache.” 

“A _headache_? And here I thought you enjoyed my company.” 

His vision was getting blurry; his throat constricted. It was all he could do to choke out one word. “Please…” 

“My brilliance can be a bit much to handle, I know. You’re not the first to—” Varric broke off. “Anders?” 

A single tear rolled down Anders’s cheek. When he felt it, he burned with shame, but he could do nothing to hold the rest back. His next breath hitched into a ragged gasp. Then another, and another. Before he knew it, he was sobbing—paralyzed, helpless, and fervently wishing that he were alone. 

**_Do you see how weak this makes you? Are we not better off alone?_**

Sometimes Anders wondered how much of this voice was really Justice. He knew he was possessed—he never doubted that—but what a horror if he had gone mad, too. He would never know the difference between when Justice berated him and when he tormented himself. The very idea of it set the core of him shuddering, sending tremors out in waves until he could no longer tell up from down amid the quaking. 

**_He will believe you are in hysterics. He will hit you, as the Templars did when you broke down in solitary. As the Warden did when you balked at the thought of entering the Deep Roads, for fear the walls would close around you._ **

“Please…” Anders buried his head in his hands. He begged for the whole mad world to stop. “Please…” 

**_Why do you think he will be different? The mortal world is hard, and it shows no mercy. How long will you resist before you learn that?_ **

“I can’t bear it,” whispered Anders. “I just… _can’t_ …” 

“Anders?” 

What did that voice remind him of? 

“Anders!” 

Far away, as from a dream… 

“Anders, talk to me!” 

But no. This was real. 

“Damn it, Blondie…” 

Anders became aware of someone holding him, and that his own hands were clenched in that same person’s coat, his head crooked against a shoulder. He opened his eyes to find the world no longer shook; the fading spasms in his chest were contained within that steady grip. He smelled leather, parchment, spice. The clinging aroma from a tavern: an edge of sweat and ale. A hint of smoke. Some sort of musk, and wood polish. Warm breaths blew over his ear, and he could feel someone’s thumb working small circles in his back. It all pulled him back to reality. 

_Yes,_ thought Anders. _I know that voice._ “Varric?” 

The name came out hoarse, but clear enough. The grip around him loosened, and the hands on his back shifted to his shoulders. Anders regretted speaking up for an instant—he had felt safe in that embrace—but reluctantly drew back from the warmth he had rested against. He raised his head to find Varric watching him, eyes concerned and brow furrowed. 

Anders registered, distantly, that he could not feel Justice. 

“I…” Anders coughed. “I’m sorry.” 

Varric just shook his head. He let one arm slide off of Anders’s shoulder, but kept the other in place, resting on his feathered pauldron. Again, Anders mourned the loss of that part of their contact inwardly, and tried not to focus on the place where they still touched, achingly close to his collarbone and to his bare skin. He remembered the brush of those fingers against his temple on the night he had collapsed. He wanted their gentleness, their warmth again. But this light pressure would have to be enough. And somehow, in this moment, it balanced perfectly against all the pieces of Anders that reached out to Varric. 

_I never knew,_ thought Anders in wonder as he felt the pieces join together. Felt himself grow whole again. _I never knew…_

For the first time, he began to see what it might be like… To be loved in a way that didn’t begin and end with passion. To be touched this way in the night before the morning when he knew he would wake up alone. He had so hoped that Karl… 

_“Why do you look at me like that?”_

… But no. He had always been alone. 

A quick tangling of limbs. His dreams killing him at night. An empty bed when he awoke, the sheets twisted. Shivering. It was all he had ever known. 

How far away those years all seemed to him now, at peace in his clinic beside Varric. Here, his every fear had been turned around to another face he could never have believed would exist. Even his tears had prompted comfort instead of scorn, a response foreign enough after the few times he had not been able to keep them back in the Tower to make him forget that he should wipe them away. He became aware of a lack of wetness on his cheeks, and he realized they must have dried on his face. Had so much time—enough for that—really passed by without him knowing? 

“Listen, Anders,” said Varric at last. “I won’t insult you by asking if you’re all right, and I’m not going to push. But if there’s anything I can do…” 

He trailed off, but it was not for lack of words to say. Not Varric. No, never. Everything Varric did was deliberate, and his mind worked lightning fast. How fortunate that he saw so much—and yet, what a pending curse. There were so many things Anders wondered if Varric had already guessed—the history between him and Karl, for one, or even his expanding involvement in the mage underground. Both were distinct possibilities, given Varric’s nose for secrets, and Anders found he couldn’t quite decide which would be the more uncomfortable subject to talk about. 

And then, of course, there was his association with Justice, which went a far ways beyond uncomfortable. 

**_Tell him what we are_** . The command echoed in his mind. **_See then what sentiment he could ever feel for an abomination._**

_I’m sorry,_ thought Anders. _I’m so sorry. You deserve to know, Varric, but I can’t tell you. Not tonight._ Not so soon after he finally found a spot of solace in the world. He couldn’t bring himself to risk it yet. 

Instead, he looked Varric in the eye and smiled with all the gratitude in his heart. It was not a wide smile, or even a happy one. But it was sincere. “If there’s anything,” Anders promised him, “I will let you know.” 

He was actually relieved when Varric accepted this answer, nodded, and stood up. The dwarf’s eyes were earthen undercurrents; it was dangerous to dwell in them for too long. Varric’s shoulders as he rolled the stiffness from them were no better, however, and Anders feared mightily for his self-control. 

Varric finished stretching, glanced at the window, and frowned. “Damn,” he swore, with some surprise. “It’s blind-nug dark out.” 

Anders raised an eyebrow. “That’s an interesting expression.” 

“Have you ever seen a blind nug stumbling around town?” Varric looked at him sidelong. “The image does tend to stick with you.” 

“I can’t say that I have,” admitted Anders. 

“I’d show you, Blondie, but I don’t think I could do it justice. I’d need complete darkness, a couple breakable objects, and several rounds of hard liquor for a decent go.” 

“Would you settle for two of three?” asked Anders. “I could turn out the lights and you could find something to suit.” 

“Nah.” Varric waved a hand. “Too much awkward fumbling. Also, noisy.” 

“Perhaps you’re right,” agreed Anders. “Awkward fumbling and noise, with just the two of us in here? What would the neighbors think?” 

The words had already passed his lips before he realized what he’d said. 

“Well,” said Varric, a grin flashing across his face, “they can put two and two together. I can’t think of anything else like that we might be doing in a dark room. Can you?” 

The low light of the dying fire did a great deal to hide Anders’s flush, but it didn’t hide it well enough. Varric took note, and he laughed and laughed. “You started it, Blondie!” he reminded Anders gleefully, still chuckling as he walked toward the door. “And you really set yourself up for that one. You make that kind of joke, you’d better be prepared to go all the way with it.” 

“Unfortunate phrasing, but I see your point.” Anders winced. “Oh, Andraste. It just keeps getting worse and worse, doesn’t it?” 

Varric covered his face with his palm and nudged the clinic’s door open. “I’m leaving,” he declared, stepping out. 

“Was it really that bad?” Anders called after him down the street, unable to resist and not at all caring who heard. 

“Yes!” came the answer, in just the right affronted tone. 

And Anders had to lean against the clinic’s rickety doorframe to keep from collapsing to the ground in his laughter. 

* * * 

Varric brought his work down to the taproom of the Hanged Man, hoping the lively atmosphere would lend some focus to his mind before the evening dragged on fully into night. He was soon interrupted, however, by the arrival of Hawke, who sported a freshly scabbed cut along his jaw. 

“Trouble?” asked Varric as the warrior took a seat across from him. 

“Not really,” said Hawke. “Thugs again. I took care of them.” 

Varric shook his head in disbelief. “And to think that people still voluntarily attack you.” 

Hawke shrugged at him. “I was alone,” he said. “Just another Ferelden that nobody would miss. Can’t really blame them for trying their luck.” 

“You ought to leave a couple survivors sometime. Then word might get around you’re not quite as dainty as you look.” 

Hawke, armed and armored, raised an eyebrow at that. 

Before Varric could say another word, however, the door to the Hanged Man swung open on its endearingly creaky hinges, and Varric looked up automatically. He meant to glance quickly over the newcomer, identify the face, and file the information away. But the sight of this particular figure, outlined against the darkening street and looking a bit lost in the doorframe, was recognizable enough to claim Varric’s full attention. 

“Anders!” Varric called out, throwing one arm up in a wave, drawing a blink of surprise out of Hawke. “Over here! Anders!” 

The tall mage started at his name, and seemed to recognize Varric’s voice. It took him a moment to find the dwarf in the crowd. 

“Come on!” bellowed Varric, grinning at Anders in delight and enjoying the answering smile that spread across the mage’s face as their eyes met. He hadn’t expected Anders to drop by so soon. He knew Hawke was here—that complicated things—but still, he couldn’t have been more pleased. 

Anders threaded his way through the crowd to their table. A few serving girls he passed, along with one man off to the side, eyed him as he crossed the room, clearly interested in the lanky newcomer. They turned away, however, when they saw the unmistakable signs of Darktown on him. It wasn’t just the poverty, the clearly worn clothes. The place just left a mark on you, intangible but there. It was what led these people to dismiss Anders, as though he weren’t even worth the looking. 

_Oh, Blondie,_ thought Varric, as sadness and anger fought in his gut. He kept smiling, however. Let Anders focus on that. 

Anders reached their table. He hesitated at its edge now that he saw Varric had company—and hard-looking company at that. 

Varric jumped up and gripped his forearm, taking a supportive place at his side. “Good to see you, Blondie!” He squeezed Anders’s forearm, and the mage relaxed slightly. 

Hawke frowned. “Varric, who’s this?” 

“My good friend, Anders,” answered Varric. “Anders, meet Hawke.” 

“Anders,” repeated the warrior, nodding. He immediately offered his hand. “Any friend of Varric’s is a friend of mine.” 

Anders shook it. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Hawke.” 

“Straight from Varric, I assume.” Hawke shot the dwarf a look. “Don’t believe any of it.” 

“Hey!” protested Varric. “Somebody’s got to build your reputation.” 

Hawke sighed at him. “Why?” 

“You’re slaughtering too many innocent thugs who don’t know any better,” retorted Varric. “Too many bodies in the street. It’s unsightly.” 

“Why, you’re quite the public servant, Varric. The viscount should add you to his payroll.” 

“I’m already on it, in a sense.” Varric tugged Anders toward a chair. “Come on, Anders, sit down. Nobody gossips standing up in a tavern.” 

Anders chuckled and allowed himself to be pulled. He settled down in a chair across from Hawke, and Varric sat to his left, between the two humans. Anders seemed much more at ease now that he knew where he stood with them, noted Varric, pleased with himself. And it didn’t hurt that he’d seen Hawke’s sense of humor. 

“Now,” said Anders after a moment, “I’ve got to ask. Did you really slay an ogre with your bare hands in the Deep Roads?” 

Hawke nodded. “That one is actually true.” 

“See, Hawke?” asked Varric. “If the story’s good enough, I don’t fix it. Much.” 

“We were caught by surprise,” explained Hawke. “The ogre smashed through our provisions the third time we stopped to rest. I was repairing my sword in the back of the wagon at the time, and it went flying one way, me the other.” He brought his fists together on the table, then pulled them apart suddenly to demonstrate. “The ogre went for Aveline—another friend, a lady of the Guard,” he explained, and Anders nodded. Varric had told him of Aveline. “She held her own. It gave up on her… and went for Varric.” 

Anders’s eyes widened, and Hawke chuckled. “He didn’t tell you that part, did he?” 

“I’d taken Bianca apart to clean her,” put in Varric, patting his crossbow. “We weren’t careful enough that night.” 

“We’d been heavy on our guard up to then,” Hawke went on, “and we were all strung too tight.” He shook his head. “One mistake is all it takes. We didn’t know the thing was coming until it was right up on us, and we weren’t prepared to fight.” 

Anders shifted uncomfortably. “What happened then?” 

“I climbed the ogre, tore off its horn, and drove that through its eye.” Hawke pounded a fist on the table. “Dead.” 

Anders stared at him. “Wow.” 

“Saved my life,” said Varric. “It had me backed into a wall.” He looked at Hawke sidelong. “Say, Hawke, I thought you didn’t want these tales getting spread around.” 

“This one you can use,” said Hawke with a shrug. “Let the ogre be an example. Do not threaten my friends.” 

“All right,” said Varric. “One question, though. Do I have to be the damsel in distress, or can it be Aveline?” 

Hawke shook his head. “She wouldn’t stand for that.” 

“Merrill, then,” suggested Varric. 

“No.” Hawke grinned. “Fenris.” 

Varric whistled. “Maker’s breath, Hawke. You’re a genius.” 

“I would say Isabela, but she’d seize onto it and work the chivalrous knight angle, and then the bare-handed angle, and Maker, I don’t even want to know.” Hawke sighed. “Speaking of Isabela, she wanted to speak with me tonight. Excuse me, Varric. Anders.” 

Hawke stood and went to the bar, where a dark woman in swashbuckling garb stood tossing back drink after drink. She turned at Hawke’s approach and cast her eyes up and down his body. She whispered something and winked at him as she sidled up against his chest. 

He turned his head away, set his hands on her shoulders, and guided her one step back. Not a harsh denial, but a firm one. She didn’t seem offended. 

“He’s not the romantic type,” said Varric, drawing Anders’s eyes back to him. “She’s not the only one who’s tried.” 

“No?” 

“We had to poke through the Blooming Rose once. He didn’t seem to care one way or the other about anything going on in there.” 

“Perhaps they didn’t make him the right offer,” said Anders carefully. He turned his head to the side, glancing away into the floorboards. 

Varric laughed. “They made _every_ offer. Some weren’t from employees.” 

“Oh.” Anders glanced back at Hawke. He and Isabella were in the midst of discussing something as the rogue flipped a dagger in one hand. “I suppose he _is_ very…” Anders trailed off as a flush crept up his neck. He returned his gaze to the floorboards. 

Varric remembered the man who had eyed Anders when he came in, and something clicked. “Anders,” he said softly, “could I ask you a question?” 

The mage looked back at him and nodded. 

Varric waited for a second, a calculated hesitation. This question would only upset Anders if Varric asked it too quickly. “You and Karl—” 

“Yes.” Anders cut him off. He looked away again and swallowed hard. “Whatever you’re about to ask, yes. I guarantee you the answer is yes.” 

_Oh._ Varric went through the scene in the Chantry again in his mind. Everything made sense now—well, almost everything. He was glad for Anders’s sake that they had talked afterward. He was sorry he hadn’t asked the right questions. 

“Does it bother you?” Anders asked him, like he was afraid of the answer. Like he already knew what that answer would be. “That I’ve been with men?” 

Men. Plural. _Oh, Anders._ He probably remembered every one of them. 

“I’m sorry,” said Anders, grown anxious in Varric’s silence. He made to rise from the table. “I see I’ve made you uncomfortable. I should—” 

“No.” Varric caught his arm and felt the tension in it, the nerves drawn tight as lute strings. “Anders. It doesn’t bother me.” 

Anders’s eyes, wide with surprise, finally returned to Varric’s face. “Oh,” he finally managed, and sank back into his chair. 

Varric chuckled and released him. “Honestly, Blondie. What did you think I was going to say?” He frowned thoughtfully. “To tell you the truth, I only wish I’d known sooner.” 

“Sorry,” said Anders. 

“You say you’re sorry too much.” Then Varric leaned forward suddenly, his eyes snapping across the room. “Hey, hang on. I think Hawke’s waving at me.” 

“Varric!” bellowed the warrior from beside the bar. Isabela, next to him, had her hand on her hip, waiting as the bartender counted her tab away. “Trouble tonight. Get Bianca, and let’s go.” 

“She never leaves me, Hawke!” Varric called out. He slid his chair back from the table. “Sorry, Blondie,” he said apologetically, clapping Anders on the shoulder. “Hawke doesn’t really tell me that he needs me in advance.” 

Anders waved it off. “I’m the one who dropped by.” 

“And I’m glad you did.” Varric paused. “Hey, Anders. I think you should stick around tonight.” 

Anders blinked. “What, in the Hanged Man? Why?” 

“It’s late,” explained Varric. “Also, there may or may not be a black market deal happening between here and Darktown tonight. It’s going bad. My fault.” 

“Varric!” That was Hawke again. He wasn’t a patient man. 

“I can’t afford a room here, Varric,” protested Anders. 

“Fine. Camp out in mine.” Varric dug a key out of his pocket. He pressed it into the stunned mage’s hand. “Up the stairs, third door on the left. Lock it behind you and don’t answer if anyone knocks.” 

“I… But…” Anders shook his head. “How will you get in?” 

“Oh, come on, Blondie. Have a little faith.” Varric smirked. “No doors are locked to me.” 

* * * 

Varric’s palatial suite was as eclectic as the dwarf himself. Anders had slipped inside and found his feet on an Orlesian rug, a polished war horn resting on the table in front of him, and so many bookshelves on the walls around him that he could hardly see the expensive hangings that had been stuffed into the cracks between them. Covered lamps burned low about the room, and though the fire in the hearth had been doused, a well-insulated warmth suffused the air. 

Anders found a washroom as well, and an alcove containing a low dwarf’s bed, but it was the main room that held his attention. He wandered and plucked exotic tomes off the shelves, pausing often to examine the trinkets strewn in front of them. He even opened a few drawers—he already knew Varric approved of snooping—and found some assorted stories penned in Varric’s own hand. He pulled out a handful of them—leaving the desk in the corner with its piles of business papers alone—and brought his complete armful of reading material to a pile of cushions in the corner. 

Anders spread the books and scrolls around him and picked one of Varric’s creations at random. It was a short prose work about an old fisherman chasing mermaids from the shore—humorous throughout, and by the end, vaguely heartwarming. Anders chose another—a chilling mystery of murders set in an alley in a sea port. The third piece was a collection of racy encounters between a mercenary and a bard which made even Anders flush. The fourth was a tender love poem. 

Anders set that down hurriedly. _Not for you,_ he told himself, and pushed it away. No, such things were not for him. Not anymore, not with Justice grumbling even now in his mind. And certainly not from Varric. 

Anders picked up a velvet-bound text. The pages within it were richly illuminated, the lettering and borders a pleasure to behold, but unfortunately he could not read a word; the text was written in some foreign tongue, likely the incomprehensible Orlesian. He set it down and opened another bound in thick leather. Within, he found a pleasant surprise: a useful researcher’s journal on herb lore. He pored over the etched diagrams as the sky outside the main room’s half-curtained window darkened to full black, oblivious as an egg to the passage of time. 

* * * 

Blood dripped into Varric’s eyes. He growled and shook his head, and crimson droplets splattered down against the door frame and the floor. His fingers worked at the latch guarding the door to his quarters—a mechanism made for Varric by a child—a mageling as well as a locksmith’s daughter—whom he’d sheltered for a time. It changed shape at every try, so any who aspired to enter Varric’s quarters needed either a key or a lockpick as sharp as Varric to get through without triggering a force blast that threw them back to the last Blight. Varric had eventually had to rent out the room which sat across from his own so no one would complain about the people who kept getting blown through the wall at odd hours. 

The latch tripped, and Varric shoved the door open with his boot. He felt more blood running down over his fingers, and cursed as he wiped them on his coat. The garment was already a total loss, anyway; an errant cut had torn down half his forearm, splitting his coat’s leather and scoring a rent in his skin. Hawke had bound the wound up for him with the air of a man who’d done such patch-up work often, though of course Varric knew he’d need stitches. Already the bandages were soaked through. 

The hearth was long cold, and the lamps were burning low. Varric made a mental note to top off their oil as he slid Bianca off his shoulder. He left her on the table beside his war horn and kicked his way over to the fireplace. He needed hot water, disinfectant, a needle and thread… _Just don’t get them out of order, and you’re all right,_ he thought. His eyes wandered about the room. 

Anders had set himself up in the corner with the pile of cushions. Several books and sheaves of paper lay spread out around him, and he held a plain leather-bound text in his hands. In this light, the edges of him were so soft. He seemed absorbed, at ease. He had not even yet noticed Varric’s return when normally he jumped at the slightest sound. 

“Little help here, Blondie?” called Varric. He pulled a drawer open and fumbled around for his medical supplies with his uninjured arm. He glanced over his shoulder in time to see Anders start and look up from his book. When he recognized Varric, he relaxed. 

“You’re back.” The healer’s eyes crinkled into the faint lines of crows’ feet at the corners when he smiled, and abruptly Varric wondered how old Anders really was. 

“Glad you’ve made yourself at home.” Varric raised an eyebrow at the papers arrayed around Anders alongside the books from his shelves. 

A flush rose in Anders’s cheeks, and he coughed. So he _had_ been snooping. Varric approved. 

Varric found his first aid satchel and dragged it out as he turned again, just slightly, so that Anders could see the tear in his coat. “I’m afraid my errands went badly.” 

“Oh, Andraste.” Anders cursed and scrambled to his feet. “What—” 

“Raiders out on the Wounded Coast, slavers and a blood mage among them.” Varric sank down on a stool beside the cold hearth and dumped his satchel out beside him. “We ran into Qunari on the way back.” 

“Qunari?” Anders was already kneeling at his side and helping him out of his coat. 

“We went to the Arishok to see if he was involved.” Varric shrugged. “Nothing. The group we fought were exiles.” 

“You walked so far with that wound?” Anders shook his head. His hands were at the bandages bound around Varric’s arm now, probing for the extent of the damage. “Why didn’t you have it seen to?” 

“Oh, come on, Blondie,” Varric teased him, tweaking his nose. “You know you’re the only healer for me.” 

Anders chuckled and let it go. Blood rose again in his cheeks as he turned to stack logs for a fire. Varric probably should have felt bad for making him blush so much, but Anders just made it too easy. 

Fire blazed up suddenly in the hearth, suddenly enough to make Varric jump. Only a spell from Anders, he knew, but after a round with that blood mage… Varric shook it off as Anders turned back to him. 

“Water in the washroom,” said Varric, before he could ask. “Two pails, fresh, right by the door. And I’m begging you, don’t grab the chamberpot by mistake.” 

Soon enough, they had the water heated, and Anders was undoing his bandages. _There_ was the touch that Varric remembered—if anything, more tender than before. He watched as Anders uncovered more and more of the long gash in his skin. The healer’s face was drawn, as it always was when Varric came to him hurt. One of his long hands left Varric’s arm and carefully touched the dwarf’s forehead, under the gash skirting his hairline. 

“Just a scratch, Blondie,” Varric assured him. 

Anders simply pressed his lips together and closed his eyes. Varric felt something flooding into him from Anders’s fingers, fighting its way sluggishly up to the cut. It reached the torn skin and lapped around the edges, and Varric sighed as it took hold. The healing felt _wonderful_ , but… 

_How much power must he be pouring into this?_

The two of them had talked before about House Tethras, and about how Varric’s ancestors had never even ventured above the Stone until his family’s exile from Orzammar. Resistance to magic ran deep in their blood. It had kept Varric alive tonight as the blood mage on the coast fired bolt after bolt of life-fueled lightning at him, only to have the magic fizzle when it hit the dwarf’s skin. It was what had allowed him to touch the lyrium artifact without falling to its influence as his brother Bartrand—a literal bastard, to the end—had. He had walked straight through a paralysis trap, broken a tight-laced force prison. And he had resisted a mageling’s rejuvenation spell before, and had almost died as a result. 

By the time the cut closed, Anders had grown pale. He drew away his hand and, without a word, turned to wet a rag in the hot water. 

Varric stared at him. “You didn’t have to do that.” 

“I’m a healer,” answered Anders, too brightly. “Open wounds bother me.” He brought the rag to Varric’s arm and began to wash the blood away. He wouldn’t meet Varric’s eyes. _Shame, too._ The gold in them was practically shining in the light of the rekindled fire. 

“I’m not too fond of them, myself.” Varric grimaced as Anders peeled off the last of the sodden bandage. Fat red drops fell from his forearm to splatter his suite’s expensive wood paneling. “Ah, great,” he muttered. “There’s even blood on my floor. People are going to start thinking I bring my shady business in here.” 

“Don’t you?” 

“Yes, Anders.” Varric swept his free hand in an arc to indicate the lavishly decorated room. “Can’t you tell by the gruesome, incriminating evidence here?” He clicked his tongue. “I mean, look at that rug. Just _criminal_ —no taste. But I can’t be bothered to have it tossed.” 

Anders chuckled softly at that as he kept working on Varric’s wound. “This isn’t deep,” he said. “Just in a bad place.” He set the rag aside and picked up the needle and thread. Varric saw a flash of fire engulf the needle for an instant before Anders threaded it through. 

“You’ve gotten very free with your magic around me,” he observed. 

“We wizards are, in fact, incorrigible show-offs.” Anders’s light tone jarred with the tentative brush of his fingertips on Varric’s wrist as they ghosted up to where Anders would make the first stitch. “Once we find out we won’t get arrested for it, at least.” 

“Well, you’re in luck, Blondie. I’m too short to be a Templar, and I don’t think I could ever spit out the Chantry oaths.” 

“Out of curiosity, Varric,” asked Anders, “what do you believe?” 

“Paragons. The Stone.” Varric shrugged. “Usual dwarven stuff.” 

“Do you have any faith in the Maker, or Andraste?” 

“No.” Varric winced as Anders cinched the edge of his wound closed. “I think you humans are all weird for looking to one spirit in particular. How’s the Maker’s prophet supposed to have time for you all? And how are either of them supposed to hear if you’re not bound to them by blood?” 

“You’re not descended from every Paragon,” Anders pointed out. 

“No, but we have the Stone.” Varric shrugged. “Binds us together as a race. It’s like the Fade, only for dwarves.” 

“I’ve never heard it described like that,” said Anders, frowning. “Does that mean you go to the Stone when you dream?” 

“I take full credit for my own dreams, thank you,” said Varric. “No. It’s more like we’re… part of the earth, and our spirits swim around inside it after we die. Alive or dead, we’re our own creatures.” 

“Independent as a cat.” Anders reached up and tweaked Varric’s earring. “And vain as one, too.” 

“I thought you liked cats, Blondie.” 

“I do,” Anders assured him. “Very much.” His stitches by that point reached halfway up Varric’s wound. Varric found that the more often Anders patched him up, the better he got at ignoring the pain. And their talk distracted him. 

Varric squinted at Anders’s earlobe. Now that he was close enough… “Anders, you used to wear an earring there.” 

“I had two.” Anders turned his head for a moment so Varric could see another piercing’s shadow in his other earlobe. “I’d already had to sell both by the time I reached Kirkwall. Not real gold, of course, but I liked them.” 

“These aren’t real gold either, actually. I got them cheap off two separate merchants. Plated.” Varric watched Anders thoughtfully. Then, suddenly, a wicked grin spread across his face. “Say, Anders. I might be wearing _your_ earrings.” 

Anders paused for a moment. He looked up at Varric, blinked at him in surprise, and smiled, seemingly pleased by the thought. “They certainly look the part.” 

“I suppose we’ll never know,” said Varric. He tugged on one of the earrings and winked. 

Yes. More blushing. He was on a roll today. 

Anders ducked his head and finished the rest of the stitching. He cleaned off what remained of the blood and bound Varric’s forearm up in soft gauze. The human even helped Varric back into his coat, fastening the single button as Varric looked on. 

“Waste of time, Blondie,” said Varric. “I don’t sleep with this on.” 

“I should hope not,” said Anders. “Your forest of chest hair would suffocate.” 

“Magnificent, isn’t it?” 

“As understated as the dwarf it’s growing on—but ‘magnificent’ _is_ the word I’d choose, yes.” 

Varric raised an eyebrow. “Well, come on, then, let’s see yours.” 

“ _What?_ ” Anders, caught by surprise, fell over. 

Varric chuckled at the sight. “Or do _you_ sleep with that on?” he asked with a nod to Anders’s coat, as the human struggled back up to a sitting position. 

“I do,” admitted Anders. “The nights get cold in Darktown, and I can’t always be burning a fire. Wood gets expensive. It’s hard enough keeping a stock in the clinic for boiling water and cooking. The coals do linger for a while, but if I have a late night… If I wake up…” He trailed off. “I’m sorry. I’ve ruined the joke, haven’t I?” 

“Nah.” Varric smiled and waved it off. _Sorry about this part, Anders._ “You’re just giving me new material.” Then he laughed as Anders tried to hide hurt and confusion, and he reached out to squeeze Anders’s shoulder. “No, don’t look at me like that, Blondie. It’s just part of being around a writer.” He moved his hand to Anders’s jaw and teased at the stubble along that long bone. “Haven’t you heard the one about the wizard who comes in times of war and famine and makes everything better for the poor children on the street?” 

Anders trembled slightly under Varric’s touch. “I bet the Chantry wouldn’t like that.” 

“I thought about giving him a lovable dwarven partner in crime who doesn’t give a damn about the Templars. But the wizard’s too private, and the dwarf is too nosy.” Varric shrugged and let his hand fall from Anders’s face. “Always feels like he’s missing something.” 

Anders smiled sadly. “The dwarf, or the mage?” He reached up to touch the last place Varric’s hand had been. He held that spot so delicately, as though he were trying to recapture a ghost. 

“What aren’t you telling me, Anders?” 

“Still for your story?” Anders ducked the question and turned away. “Varric, why do you write?” 

“Because people need stories,” answered Varric. “They need to close their eyes to this place for a while. Some people do it with the drink, some people do it at the Blooming Rose. Some people do it at the Hanged Man because they need to listen as much as I need to talk.” By the time he finished speaking, Anders’s eyes had been drawn back to him again. “Fine, then. You just look at me like that. If you’re going to keep everything bottled up and never admit _you_ need to talk, then I’m going to bed, because I’m fucking tired.” 

“I’m sorry, Varric, I didn’t mean—” 

“And quit apologizing.” Varric sighed. When was the last time he let his anger get the best of him? “It’s fine. Go on, Anders. Get this stuff packed up again.” 

Silence stretched between them. Anders cleaned the needle and placed it back into Varric’s medical kit along with what remained of the roll of gauze. Varric rose as soon as he saw Anders was done and fell into his low bed in the corner. 

“Stay here. Sleep on the couch.” Varric shrugged off his coat and reached for the blankets. “It’s too dark for you to be walking from here to Darktown. Leave all the lanterns in here on, I don’t care, just don’t open the window.” 

“Varric, I can’t—” 

“You _can_ stay, and you’re damn well going to. Good night.” Varric pulled the covers over his own head and lay awake listening until the sound of a body settling into cushions and cloth and the whooshing ghost bellows of deep breathing assured him that Anders had followed his orders. Only then did he drift off to sleep. 

When he awoke, most of the room was in darkness. He would have to refill those lamps, Varric thought as he propped himself up. He noticed, however, one bright light across the way—Anders sitting at his writing desk, holding a quill motionless above the page and staring down at the paper. 

_How long have you been up, Blondie?_ But Varric bit his tongue and watched. 

After a long while, Anders began to move the quill, writing a few words before he dipped it in the ink again, and then he wrote a few more. Determination lined his face, and there was anger in his shoulders. At Varric? At himself? At the letters he wrote upon the page? That was, decided Varric, for no one to know. 

At last he stopped and sat back in the chair. Varric was proud of that chair. It was large and luxurious, sufficient for a human, though lanky Anders must find it cramped, and clearly the healer had sat there for a while. Varric glanced sideways at the drapes on his window that blocked the sun. By the light, it must be just past dawn. 

“What are you up to, Blondie?” asked Varric. 

Anders’s eyes slid open and flickered to Varric. “Wasting your ink,” he replied, stretching, “and crumpling your parchment.” He kicked one of the many balls of paper crowding around his feet. It rolled, stuttering, across the hardwood floor. 

Varric rolled out of bed and reached for his coat. He slipped it on over the bandages on his arm and ambled toward Anders. “Hm,” he grunted. “And what’re you doing _that_ for?” 

Anders pressed a piece of paper into his hand. “Here.” He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He looked exhausted. “Everything you need to know.” Bitter. 

Varric wasn’t sure he _wanted_ to know anymore. Nosy as he was, some things a dwarf was better off not knowing. All the same, nosy is as nosy does, and already he was reading Anders’s flowing script. 

* * * 

Varric tromped down the stairs. 

_I need to think,_ he’d told Anders. _Don’t you move. Not one inch._

In the far corner, Varric spotted Hawke, nursing a full pint between his hands, still foaming and untouched. He must have drawn it himself; the front room was empty, save for him. Varric took a seat beside the grizzled warrior with dark circles bruising the skin under his eyes. 

“Dreams again?” he asked. 

Hawke nodded gravely. “Yes.” 

“Damn, Hawke. Do you want to talk?” 

“I could stand it,” said Hawke, “if I _remembered_ them.” He shook his head slightly, slowly, amber eyes staring down into the settling drink. “But no. Just feelings.” 

“Like what?” 

Hawke glowered. 

“Fine, I get it,” said Varric. “Your brain, your business. But if you want to hit something, I’ll find you a job.” 

“No,” said Hawke. “I’ve done enough of that.” 

“I hate to tell you,” said Varric, “but you can’t stop. You’ve made a name for yourself. That’s why thugs hunt you down. Going unarmed, hoping the rough types don’t notice you… that only works for the weak and unknown. Trust me, I know. Once you’re in, you can’t stop.” 

“You’ve never tried,” said Hawke. “You love this. I don’t.” 

They sat in silence for a while. 

“Why are you down here?” asked Hawke. 

“There’s a mage with a split personality in my bedroom,” said Varric. 

“Good reason,” said Hawke. 

“Yeah. Tell me about it.” 

There was a pause. 

“Anders didn’t strike me as insane,” said Hawke. 

_Shit,_ thought Varric. “I wasn’t talking about him.” 

“I didn’t say you were.” 

Varric _hmphed._ “Well, I’m his friend. I should know.” 

Hawke nodded. He waited, but something in Varric’s frown must have told him the matter was closed. With a sigh, the worn warrior sat back, and finally he took a drink from his full tankard. “Alcohol doesn’t help,” he said. “I don’t pretend it’ll fix anything. But if you like, I’ll buy you a pint. Just today, Varric. On me.” 

* * * 

Anders lay back in Varric’s ornate room, staring up at the ceiling. He’d moved an inch—and more—from the chair to the cushions, against Varric’s order, but he knew it didn’t matter now. He was hateful, a monstrosity, and now Varric knew everything. 

_Except this,_ he thought, the poems strewn around him. Not his script—written in the hand he loved. He kept that secret, that sole one, for himself, and the really sentimental things Varric would only think him foolish for. He’d given Varric everything the dwarf could use, however he liked to use it. Anders had lived free and loved it and ruined himself, compressed his soul in his body to make room for a friend, and look how happy that made him. _Let it be over,_ he thought, squeezing his eyes shut. _Let something change. I can’t go on like this. I just can’t._

**_He’ll kill you._**

_Let him! At least when I die, I’ll still know who I am. I won’t be a prisoner, and I won’t hear the Archdemon calling me to the dark. I won’t be made Tranquil._

**_We—_**

_I! No, Justice—I still have a soul!_

The spirit subsided for a moment, and Anders could feel it thinking. **_You do,_** came the admittance, at last. **_There is a steel knife inside you. Your will is still your own._**

_Be honest, Justice. Have you tried to take it?_

**_No. But you are… weak, sometimes, through no fault of your own. Only a spirit_ becomes _a cause. Only mortals can act on it._ **

_So fighting for my people makes me more, not less, human, even by the Fade’s definition. Why can the Templars not see it that way?_

**_Injustice. Look to your memories—none force them to what they do. There is no negotiation, no matter how skilled the tongue. Always they punish, they rampage, rape—_ ** Justice broke off. 

Anders stopped breathing. _Where did you get that word?_

**_We are one. I know all that you do._**

_You’re changing, Justice,_ came Anders’s thought, at last. He breathed in. _You never spoke with such raw emotion when we met._

**_Your mind has an excess of raw emotion!_**

_Yes, I know._ Ander’s fingers brushed a piece of parchment. _And always, it must be my sorrow._

**_This… Varric. In some ways, you have not told him the important things._**

_You thought I told him too much earlier._

**_You told him what was dangerous. I disagreed with that. However, your turmoil plagues me the same as it does you. Varric has told you his story already. It may be you owe him yours in return._ **

_You want me to find an outlet. It’s just not possible._

**_Is it possible to go on this way?_**

“No,” Anders whispered. He knew it wasn’t. But then, much was impossible. That didn’t stop him from beating his head against it, pushing his boulder up an ever-steeper hill. 

If only there were some way he could make it stop. 

_I just wish—_

If only there were some way— 

— _that I could end everything._

* * * 

Anders didn’t notice when Varric came back in. Accordingly, Varric took his time, measuring his level of drunkenness as he crossed the room. As for as he could tell, he was walking straight. He supposed he wouldn’t be much of a dwarf if one pint of the Hanged Man’s thin swill made him tipsy. As a matter of fact, the taste alone had managed to clear his head rather than cloud it. And he had no trouble picking his own room’s lock. 

Anders had relocated to the cushions on the floor, and so Varric flopped down unceremoniously beside him. Anders jumped. 

“Okay,” said Varric. He lolled his head to one side so he could look at Anders. 

“Okay?” repeated Anders, cautiously, squinting at Varric in the low light. 

“Everything’s okay,” said Varric. “I needed a minute and a drink, but I got it. Is there anything else you want to tell me?” 

**Start at the beginning.**

Anders took a breath. Hesitation and fear flickered in his eyes. 

**That’s not how it happened!**

He said, “I don’t even know if you’ll believe me.” 

“Your word’s the Maker’s truth, Blondie.” Varric winked, thinking of their conversation in Anders’s clinic some time ago. “Well, to me. What’s there not to believe?” 

“It might be more than you wanted to know,” said Anders. 

“Anders, you’re killing me here. What’s wrong?” 

“I…” Anders tried and lost the words. “You’ll hate me.” 

Varric shoved at him. “Nope.” 

Does that not match the story you’ve heard, Seeker?

“Well… Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Anders hesitated. “You already know about me and Karl.” 

Varric nodded. 

“I loved him for him. It wasn’t because he was a man. It wouldn’t have mattered if he were a woman. The body he was in wasn’t the important part. If he were from the Alienage, it wouldn’t matter to me.” 

“Okay.” Varric had lost all inkling of where this one was going. He blamed the drink despite knowing full well it hadn’t made a dent in his dwarven constitution. 

“I know the difference between what we had and some of the other things that have happened to me, but still…” He swallowed. “I hated the Circle of Magi. I still do. But I am speaking of while I was there. The Templars have no care for our dignity, for our bodies or our souls.” As he spoke, blue-white lines glowed under his cheeks, and his eyes flashed lightning for an instant. 

“Do you, uh, have control over the other guy in there?” 

“It’s all right. Justice wants me to talk to you. He has fought me about this in the past, but we’ve come to an agreement, for now.” Anders rubbed at his forehead. “He has changed since he became a part of me. Maybe with a better man he would have been different. Maybe a different mage would have recognized what was happening. But there are things inside my mind that Justice was unprepared for. I fear he is turning into a raw force of my vengeance, and both of us are going to be consumed by that. But I can’t change the past… and if this affair with Justice has taught me anything, it’s that I might never find freedom, even in my own mind. There is only hope for people like me, other mages, you see. But they too have their own demons, as I have had demons even before I invited Justice in among them.” 

“Don’t work yourself up,” murmured Varric, laying a hand on his arm. “I’m already on your side. Just tell me what happened.” 

“I will not say it was all of them, but many Templars abused their power over us. The ability to do anything without consequence… There are some people who are held back in these realms only by law, and if that is removed, they do things their families outside the Tower might never believe, especially to troublemakers like me. Although whether my trouble was the cause of their treatment or the other way around is an eternal mystery.” 

“Give me their names,” said Varric. “I’ll kill them.” 

Anders looked at him askance. “Careful. I might think you’re serious.” 

“I will _pay_ people to kill them. Same difference. You don’t believe me? I swear on the Paragons and the fucking dead Archdemon.” 

Anders’s brow creases. “I… appreciate the sentiment, but the Blight took most of them. And to be honest I couldn’t give you a complete list.” He looked away. “It was… dark, and very cold. I was in solitary confinement for a long while—around a year, I learned later. It felt like eternity. I don’t know whether they were punishing me or trying to make me break, trying to prove what a monster I was. Anyway, it left quite an impression. The Warden had to drag me into the Deep Roads with her. I was sure I would go insane inside there.” 

They sat for a few moments, Varric relaxing against some combination of the cushions and Anders. 

“There’s really no way for me to keep dancing around it,” Anders said at last. “They… did things to me in solitary. I didn’t keep count, but it was about as often as I ate. I don’t know who it was or how many different people. I couldn’t see anything. It was completely pitch black.” He took a deep breath. “I can’t say more than that. I have tried to block it out. All the same, Justice knows. I have no way of hiding things from him.” 

Varric squeezed his eyes shut and shoved down vitriolic anger. “Have you told anyone else?” 

“No. Never.” 

“Oh, Anders.” Varric let his eyes flutter half-open again and breathed in and out. “Thank you for telling me.” 

“I wanted to. It was just hard.” Varric felt Anders’s fingers on the side of his face, lingering on his cheek before stroking back through his hair. “You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time.” 

“You too for me, Blondie.” 

Anders’s heartbeat was irregular. Varric could feel it through the mage’s coat. “You know,” he whispered, “sometimes I would bed someone just for this, to have them like we are now for a while after.” 

“I don’t really go for humans like that.” 

“I know. You’ve said so.” A warm kiss pressed against his forehead. “What you go for, may I ask?” 

“Theoretically, dwarf females,” said Varric, “But I’ve never actually met one of those I’m not related to. So there’s also a chance I’m like Hawke.” He paused and then looked up into those amber eyes, that sad smile, the golden blonde hair. “Anders, I’ve got to say, you’re a very handsome man. I like looking at you. Your face warms my stone-cold heart. But it doesn’t make me want to do anything weird, no offense.” 

“None taken.” One side of Anders’s mouth quirked up at Varric’s dramatics. “But this—are you all right with this?” 

“This? I feel like a cat in your lap.” 

“That makes my feelings toward you seem somewhat awkward.” 

Varric chuckled. “So that’s what you were trying to say earlier.” He wasn’t entirely surprised. People fell in and out of love with him sometimes. Admittedly, none of them knew him nearly as well as Anders did. Oftentimes the process of getting to know him better was itself the snuff to their misguided hearts’ beginning fire. “Am I right?” 

“Yes,” Anders admitted. “It has been impossible not to become too attached to you, although I tried. And this time it is… different. I have always tried to be careful in times past. No mage I know of has ever dared to fall in love. But I have been alone for so long, and here you came, like the one bright light in Kirkwall.” 

“Anders, I’m dangerous,” Varric reminded him. “Just being around me is dangerous.” 

“I could say the same thing to you about me. I _have_ said it. Varric, I will leave you now that you know why I must. If I lose control, you might be dead before I am in control of myself again.” 

“Anders, do you realize I am a dwarf?” asked Varric. “I hate to break it to you, but your spells can’t touch me. Ask Hawke sometime about the spells he’s seen me take.” 

“But you don’t have complete resistance.” 

“Want to bet? Try to kill me. Shock me now and see what happens.” 

“No!” Anders’s hands clenched in Varric’s coat. “Dwarves can still be harmed by magic—or helped, as it were.” 

“Dwarves in general, yes. Me, not so much. I’m surprised you managed to do anything to that cut on my head that one time.” 

“I don’t understand.” 

“House Tethras never ventured above the Stone until my generation. It was enough to shield me completely from the lyrium artifact in the Deep Roads.” 

“But that artifact took your brother.” 

“Bartrand’s a special case. We have—had different fathers.” He shrugged. “You’d be surprised what a second-born son learns. Let’s leave it at that.” 

“So it isn’t possible for me to hurt you,” murmured Anders. He looked stunned. “That is… incredible. I need not worry about being a danger to you directly, even if Justice takes over. You might be the only person who can give me that.” 

“The Templars can’t touch me either,” Varric pointed out. “And unless you do something brave and stupid one of these days, the Templars can’t touch you. More apostates get by here than you’d think. Maybe the Templars have got holy power on their side, but everybody has a price.” 

“I like to think I don’t.” 

“It isn’t money, most of the time. Maybe it’s your clinic. Or it’s one of your old friends.” Varric shrugged. “You gotta stop thinking inside the box, Blondie.” 

“Freedom for the mages.” Anders said it so abruptly Varric jumped. 

“Yeah?” Varric cleared his throat. “Well, okay, there you go.” 

“But I have no price for that,” said Anders, eyes narrowing. “I would also say Meredith has no price for containing all mages. We would each sacrifice everything for opposite ends if it came to that.” 

_Never sacrifice everything,_ thought Varric. _Never lay all your cards on the table_. “Hey, no need for that. There’s always another way, trust me.” 

“Well. What is your price?” 

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Varric smiled lazily. “What does Varric Tethras want? Take a guess, Blondie.” 

“You are a tease,” muttered Anders, and Varric laughed. 

“How about we start with you not running away?” 

“As bad an idea as that is…” 

“No, it’s a good idea. It’s my idea. I only have good ideas.” 

Anders chuckled. “And you are _vain_.” 

“Is that a problem?” 

“No.” 

“Good.” 

“Good…” Anders shifted. “I am glad I’m something good for you, if for nobody else. Did you mean that?” 

“Best thing in a long time. Maybe I’ll write it down.” 

“I’d like that—but not now. I don’t want you to move.” 

“I’m not sleeping here, Anders.” 

“Why not?” 

“For one thing, it’s morning.” 

“Not if we don’t want it to be.” 

“Make morning wait? I like your style. You are a human after my own heart.” 

“It seems so.” 

Varric couldn’t tell if Anders caught the double meaning, so he twisted his neck and glanced up. 

Anders smiled down at him. “Don’t worry. I never really counted on _catching_ your heart.” 

“I really am sorry. But if it helps, I care all the ways I can.” 

Anders buried his face against Varric’s shoulder and hugged him tight as the sun rose outside, filtering through the window blinds. 

Varric reflected that he’d been signing up for a lot of trouble lately. But naturally he didn’t regret it. There was something to be said for playing this less lonely part in the only story worth telling about the City of Chains. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. If you want more of my work, you can visit:  
> [A SITE WRITTEN BY PENGUINS](http://writtenbypenguins.blogspot.com/p/read-anything.html)  
> ... home to a somewhat organized archive.


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